


Keeping my promises

by Never laugh at a live Sherlock (smaugholmeswatson)



Series: Something wicked [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Moriarty is Alive, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 03:57:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1884441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smaugholmeswatson/pseuds/Never%20laugh%20at%20a%20live%20Sherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>It has been a year and a half since Sherlock returned from the dead and John has only just begun to trust him again. Gradually life has gone back to normal with Sherlock and John solving crimes together.<br/>However all that is soon going to change because there is a dark force lurking in the shadows; an old adversity who is determined to destroy Sherlock and everything he holds dear... starting with John Watson. <br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

I can't believe I am here again, here on the rooftop of St Bart's Hospital, gazing down at the one person I care about most. The wind howls around me, blowing strands of hair into my eyes and stirring the rubbish piled into the corners. Above me the sky is an unfriendly slate grey that hangs heavily, threatening rain. This time there is a noticeable difference in regards to the circumstances. Aside from the fact Moriarty is dead and no longer able to torment me, the other difference is that this time my friend John is up here with me. 

The scenery hasn't changed much either since I was last here and there is still a fantastic view across a grim choked London. I step closer to the edge and glance down at the rust coloured stain marking where Moriarty had taken his own life, a stain that is now the only thing to show he was ever alive. I draw in a deep breath and tear my gaze away. Instead I find myself looking out over the edge of the roof at the grey pavement far below and my heart gives a little irrational flutter. 

I have always been proud of the way I can remain emotionally unattached from any case I solve. Lately however I have been finding that, though I am still able to remain separate from what is happening, human emotions have begun to slip out when I least expect them to. I of course blame John. From the very first moment we'd met outside 221B Baker Street I had known he would have a profound effect on my life, a fact I had proved when I'd faked my own death to protect him. I sigh deeply. Life is much simpler without emotions. All they are good is clouding my judgement when I am trying to make a deduction. 

Standing here now on the roof I can hardly imagine how I ever managed to find the courage to actually jump. I close my eyes and take a few steps backward, images from that fateful day flashing through my mind and for a moment I am back there, standing facing Moriarty as he gives me that terrible choice; either I took my own life or he would kill everyone I cared about. Fragments of the last conversation we'd shared suddenly come back to me. 

“Three bullets, three gunmen, three victims. There’s no stopping them now. Unless my people see you jump.” 

“Your death is the only thing that's going to call off the killers." 

“As long as I’m alive you can save your friends. You’ve got a way out. Well…good luck with that.” 

I had already been prepared to take my own life, though I'd known so long as Moriarty lived I could blackmail him for a code which I could then have used to stop the killers myself, when he'd decided to take the choice out of my hands by shooting himself. And I, despite all my clever observations that Moriarty had something with which to call off his gunmen, hadn't seen it coming. He and I may never have got along but that doesn't mean I am 100% glad he's dead. I have no one to pit myself against now, at least no-one who is on the same mental level as me. 

I open my eyes again, knowing that all I'm doing is stalling, delaying the moment when I will have to look down and see John lying in a heap beside the stairwell in a spreading pool of blood. I can't however delay it any longer. Slowly I turn my gaze to John, my breath catching in my throat. Everything I'd done; jumping off the roof, faking my own death and hurting John almost to the brink of him committing suicide, had been for nothing. Despite everything my friend has still ended up getting hurt. 

I hear a commotion coming from down below on the street and cautiously peer over the edge. A number of police cars are pulling up outside the hospital, their blue lights flashing, and people jumping out, Lestrade among them. It's about time he arrived. 

"Hey!" I shout, waving my arms to get Lestrade's attention. Not that he really needed any help to find our location but he is so unobservant sometimes a child would be able to fool him. "We're up here." 

I don't wait for a reply and draw back away from the edge of the roof, turning my full attention to John. I make my way toward him and fall to my knees, not caring about the blood. A wave of dread floods through me despite my best efforts to keep my emotions in check. Sometimes remaining unattached in just impossible. Before me John lies on his side facing towards me, eyes closed, and doesn't move except for the faint rising and falling of his chest. Gently I trace the blood back until I find the wound it's coming from. 

The wound isn't as bad as it first appears. The bullet that should have pierced John's heart has instead cut a long bloody furrow into the inside flesh of his arm. This sort of wound, though painful, is not fatal. John would be fine. At this realisation I sit back on my heels and curse Moriarty for creating this entire mess. I am able to think more clearly now I have observed the situation and found it to be not as bad as I originally thought. 

I glance down at John again. I am a little worried he isn't moving but the more rational part of me knows he has passed out from the pain. John has never been good with pain. Unlike me with my highly trained mind John is weak in comparison. Despite the fact I know he is going to be alright I still test for a pulse by laying two fingers on the vein in his neck. 

A strong rhythm beats against my fingers and I allow myself the luxury of a small smile. With a shaking hand I reach out and stroke John's blond hair, telling myself as I do so that everything is going to be fine. I am glad there is no-one else around. It is rare for me to show emotion and I don't want anyone witnessing my occasional moments of weakness. 

"It's going to be okay John, you're going to be fine. Moriaty has failed. He missed anything vital." I whisper, pausing for a moment before continuing. "Oh John. I was afraid I'd lost you when I saw all the blood. Please open your eyes and show me you're okay." My voice breaks slightly and my hand on John's head pauses. 

A few tears drip down my cheeks and I hastily wipe them away. There is no need for me to be like this. John is fine. Deep down I know I'd never have forgiven myself if anything had happened to him. After all if whoever had shot him had been more accurate I would now be kneeling before a body. It is my fault he was hurt. If only I hadn't gotten so wrapped up in my latest case, a case that had turned out to be false trail designed to lure me to St Barts, I could have protected my friend and prevented this from happening. My first mistake had been letting him out of my sight earlier today. Everything had gone downhill from there. 

I hear footsteps coming up behind me but pretend not to notice them; I already know who they belong to. The cold muzzle of a gun is pressed against the back of my head and I hear the click of a safety catch being taken off. 

“Hello Sherly.” Says a familiar lilting voice, a voice I had never thought I would hear again. 

I grimace and stand, turning to face the person I'd believed to be dead. As usual Lestrade and the others won’t arrive until it is much too late. 


	2. Nine Hours Earlier

The morning of the 6th of March began like any other with me lying in bed listening to Sherlock playing his violin as he debated what to have for breakfast. I stretched and watched the weak sunlight managing to creep through the curtains with eyes still half glued together by sleep. 

I couldn't believe it had been a whole two years since Sherlock had come back from the dead. Since then he and I had solved a couple of cases together; nothing major but enough to engage the interest of the media who'd published stories about a returned genius who'd been wrongly accused of being a fake. Gradually the cases had gotten bigger and more politically important as Lestrade and the others had learnt to trust Sherlock again. It was an agonisingly slow process but I had faith everything would be back to normal before too long. 

I was torn from my thoughts by a loud vibrating noise. For a few moments I looked round, confused as the source of the sound before my eyes finally came to rest on Sherlock's phone. I glared fiercely in it's direction, willing it to burst into flames. 

"Sherlock!" I yelled, my voice slightly muffled by the pillow. "You have a text." 

I heard the strangled sound of a violin being abruptly silenced and there was a slight pause before Sherlock's head, his black hair sticking up in all directions and his shirt collar undone, poked round the door. 

"Look at it for me will you?" he asked, his normally intense blue eyes clouded by sleep. 

Grumbling under my breath I rolled over, picked up the phone and randomly stabbed at buttons until the screen lit up. A notification announced the sender of the text to be Lestrade and I groaned, knowing he probably wanted help with a crime scene. There went my plans for a quiet Saturday doing nothing while Sherlock relaxed for once. I heard a low chuckle and looked up to find Sherlock watching me intently. 

"Let me guess." he said in his deep voice. "Lestrade wants us at a crime scene." 

In answer I held out the phone to him before burrowing deeper under the duvet. Sherlock sighed, walked over and took the phone from me. I watched as he scanned the text, his expression becoming more and more animated the furthur down he scrolled. 

"Lestrade wants us to meet him at the corner of Baker Street as soon as possible." he cried, already rushing into his own bedroom. 

A few moments later a fully dressed Sherlock came bursting back into the room wearing his long woollen coat and wrapping his scarf around his neck. I let out a heartfelt groan, half hoping he would let me go back to sleep. Sherlock however was eager to go and walked towards the bed. In one swift moment he yanked the streets off me. 

"Hey." I protested, sitting upright. 

Sherlock just looked at me, his blue eyes serious. "Hurry up John. We have another case to solve." he paused and a slight smirk crept onto his features. "Nice pyjama's by the way." 

I sighed and asked him to give me five minutes to get ready. Sherlock nodded his understanding and walked off in the direction of the living room. 

"Don't be too long." He threw back over his shoulder. 

Reluctantly, cursing Lestrade and crime in general under my breath, I dragged myself out of bed and fumbled round the room, pulling on random items of clothing that were lying around. A smile crept onto my face when I heard Sherlock loudly protesting he was bored from the other room. Hastily I finished dressing and hurried to find him. 

I could vividly remember what had happened the last time my friend had become bored. The wall was still peppered with bullet holes. Low and behold when I entered the room I found Sherlock sitting sprawled in his armchair toying with my handgun. I was alarmed to see his finger dangerously close to the trigger. 

"Oh good." cried Sherlock, unfolding his long body from the chair and rising to his full height. "You're here. Let's go." 

I followed in his wake as he strode through the flat, my gaze fixed on my gun which was still in Sherlock's grip. "Sherlock; can I have my gun back please?" 

Sherlock looked down at the gun in suprise as though he'd picked it up by mistake. Casually he tossed it to me. I snatched it from the air and clicked the safety on. 

"How many times have I told you not to do that Sherlock? One of us could get shot." I snapped as I stashed the gun safetly away beneath my jacket. 

Sherlock smiled and lazily waved his hand. "I'm much too clever to let that happen." 

I rolled my eyes. Despite everything that had happened Sherlock was still the same as he'd been before he faked his death. Lestrade was still slightly mistrustful of Sherlock; which wasn't surprising considering the events that had ended with my friend jumping off the roof of St Bart's Hospital after Moriarty had tricked everyone into believing Sherlock was nothing but a fake who had been manipulating everyone all along. 

There was no way Lestrade would forgive me if I let Sherlock wander the streets of London with a loaded gun in his hand. Sometimes there was no telling what my friend what do. Just before we left I called out to Mrs Hudson, telling her not to worry and that we would be back before nightfall. I didn't receive a reply but that didn't surprise me, she was usually busy doing something. 

Together Sherlock and I walked along Baker Street to the corner in silence. Beside me I could feel Sherlock's tension as he strode along, his body humming with eagerness to discover what new case Lestrade had for him to solve. When we reached the corner my step faltered. Before me was a fully operational, bustling crime scene. Off to one side I could see Lestrade leaning against a nearby wall. He looked up when he heard us approaching and a relieved smile spread across his face. 

"You're finally decided to turn up then." Lestrade said, his voice gruff but friendly. 

I'd always liked Lestrade. It was obvious even to me, despite Sherlock always commenting on how unobservant I am, that Lestrade has a deep found respect for Sherlock and his remarkable deduction skills. Out of everyone on the police force he'd been one of the first to accept Sherlock when the detective had revealed his wasn't dead. Lestrade was also unable to hold a grudge, a trait I have always thought to be essential in someone who works closely with Sherlock. I was especially grateful for that now as Sherlock walked straight past Lestrade without acknowledging him and ducked under the police tape, already pulling on a pair of gloves. 

Seemingly oblivious to the people hovering around the body Sherlock bent down and began to examine it. I threw an apologetic look in Lestrade's direction and was relieved when he simply shrugged to show he didn't really mind before he turned to a nearby officer and nodded at them. The officer turned and made his way towards Sherlock. 

"What's going on?" I asked. Over Lestrade's shoulder I could see the officer talking to Sherlock who appeared to be slightly worried. I shook my head, telling myself not to be so silly. Sherlock hid his emotions away when we were out in public. 

"We got a call from a passer-by to tell us they'd found a dead body in Baker Street. I knew neither of you would be awake yet and decided it was best I got it under control before you arrived." he replied, running a hand over the stubble peppering his jaw. "So far all we know is that the victim was shot was quite a distance away." 

I started in surprise. Usually when Sherlock and I were called to a crime scene it was because the police were out of their depth. This crime scene however seemed to be fully under control. I frowned. There must be some other reason Lestrade had summoned us. 

I examined the crime scene from where I was standing, noting how the body was lying face down in a pool of blood. I was struck by a sudden thought. Surely it could only be a coincidence that someone had been shot dead barely five minutes from the flat I shared with Sherlock. I knew, because of what Mycroft had told me, there was a small chance Moriarty had left a back-up plan behind in case Sherlock somehow managed to beat him. So far there hadn't been any sign of any plans but you never could tell with Moriarty, it didn't do to underestimate him. 

From the look on Lestrade's face I could see he was thinking along the same lines as me. I opened my mouth to ask him something when a loud commotion from the crime scene made us both jump. Together the two of us spun round to see what was happening. 

"Hey. You can't do that. Lestrade, tell Sherlock to stop!" wailed Anderson. 

"Oh stop being so pathetic Anderson. I don't see you doing anything useful." replied Sherlock, his deep voice tinged with sarcasm. 

Lestrade's mouth fell open when he saw what was friend was doing. "What the hell do you think you're doing Sherlock?" He thundered, his face turning an unpleasant shade of red. 

Almost not wanting to see what latest crazy idea Sherlock had decided to put into action I slowly turned and faltered, hardly able to believe what I was seeing. Sherlock was standing holding the body upright while he squinted at the nearby rooftops. He seemed deeply engrossed in what he was doing and barely noticed Lestrade striding towards him. Or that was how it seemed for as soon as Lestrade stopped beside him Sherlock started talking. 

"What I am doing Lestrade is trying to help you. You did after all request my prescene here after all. You will find if you go to that rooftop over there signs of a gunman who was up there." Sherlock said, still examining the rooftops. 

Lestrade looked as though he was about to say something when Sherlock leant over and murmured something in his ear. Lestrade looked at him for a few moments before he nodded and walked back towards me. 

"He wants to see you." he said, flicking a thumb back over his shoulder in Sherlock's direction. "And." he yelled, raising his voice so Sherlock could hear him. "For heavens sake put that body down and search for clues or something." 

Wondering what Sherlock wanted I headed over to him. He didn't seem to notice I was approaching and jumped slightly when I cleared my throat loudly. 

"What's wrong?" I asked. "Lestrade said you wanted to see me." 

Sherlock turned towards me, his expression unreadable. "What do you see John?" 

I hated it when he said that. Everytime he got me to make my own deductions about a crime scene or an object he always seemed to take great delight in pointing out exactly what I'd missed. 

"There's a body, which you're still holding, and it's been shot." I said, knowing from Sherlock's frown I'd missed the vital point he was trying to get across to me. 

Sherlock carefully dropped the body back down and rotated it so I could see the person's face. He looed up at me with an intense look in his blue eyes but didn't say anything. I crossed my arms, still unsure what he wanted me to see. 

"And? I get that it's a body Sherlock." 

Sherlock sighed irritably. "Why am I surrounded by unobservant idiots?" he muttered quietly. "Look at the face John; notice anything interesting?" 

I did as he asked and bent down to take a closer look at the body. Suddenly I spotted what had worried Sherlock earlier and why Lestrade had called us to the crime scene. A quiet gasp escaped me. "It looks just like me." 

I couldn't believe it had taken me as long as it had to notice. Now I knew what I was looking for it was impossible to ignore. The dead person really was spookily similiar to me, right down to the jacket they were wearing. I glanced at Sherlock in time to see a mixed look of apprehension and surprise flash across his face. 

"Who do you think would do this?" I asked, not entirely sure if I wanted to know the answer. 

Sherlock's blue eyes were heavy with sadness when he answered. "Moriarty." 

At a loss at how to reply I could do nothing but stare at my friend for a few moments. "But he's dead." I stammered. "There's no way he could be behind this." 

Sherlock had told me himself how Moriarty had shot himself before laying on the roof of St Bart's with blood pooling from the back of his head. Surely Sherlock didn't believe there was a chance Moriarty could possibly have survived. 

Sherlock slowly shook his head and stuck his hands in the pockets of his coat. "I was clever enough to fake my own death and it stands to reason he may have managed to do the same." 

Silence settled over us in a cloud as we stood beside the body, unsure what to say to one another. Even Anderson muttering to the other forensic scienctists was unable to defuse the tension between us. The awkwardness was eventually broken by a shout from behind us. 

"Sherlock you were right. I found signs of a gunman and they left something behind." Lestrade yelled, one fist raised in truimph. 

Sherlock took a step towards him and pulled off his gloves before carelessly stuffing them back into his coat pocket. I stayed by the body and watched the two of them talking together in low voices. Lestrade handed something to Sherlock that glinted in the early morning sun and I craned my neck, trying to see what the object was. I was unsuccesful however and the object was quickly dropped into one of Sherlock's deep pockets. I was so busy watching the interaction between them that I didn't hear the footsteps appraoching. 

"Do you really think we can trust him? I heard what he was said about Moriarty, the person we all know he invented to make himself look clever." 

I jumped slightly and clenched my fists. It takes every ounce of will I possess to prevent myself from lashing out at Anderson. I have never liked him much. He's a forensic scientist by trade and frequently locks horns with Sherlock at crime scenes as a result. Anderson was also one of the first to discredit the detective as a fake. In fact he still reckoned Sherlock was a fake and had pretended to die so everyone would be all sympathic and forget about the fact he supposedly created Moriarty. 

"Piss off Anderson, I don't have time for this. Sherlock and I have a case to solve." 

Anderson snorted loudly, his lip curling slightly. "You mean Sherlock has a case to solve. You're after all only his sidekick." 

He drew in a breath to continue but instead, once he saw Sherlock heading towards us, backed off towards the other forensic scientists. Sherlock glareed fiercely in Anderson's direction before he turned to face me. 

"What did he want?" he asks, his deep voice dangerously low. 

I hesistated for a moment, unsure how to answer him. I could either tell him the truth and risk my friend confronting Anderson or I could lie and risk him working out what Anderson had said anyway. I dithered for a while longer beteen the two before deciding to lie. Hopefully Sherlock was too distracted to notice. 

"Oh nothing. He was just being his usual annoying self." I said, trying hard to keep my voice level. 

To my relief Sherlock barely seemed to take in what I said, obviously distracted by what Lestrade had handed to him. He was already turning on his heel to head back to the flat. I waited for a few more seconds to see if he had anything to say but he didn't turn back and I quickly hurried after him. 

* * * * 

Lestrade watched Sherlock and John walk away before he sighed deeply and closed his eyes. He was unsettled by how similiar the body looked to John and thought back to what Sherlock had said about Moriarty being behind it. Surely it just wasn't possible. Then Lestrade remembered what he'd found and a cold shiver ran down his spine. Maybe it wasn't so impossible after all. He opened his eyes when he heard Anderson calling to him and headed in the scienctist's direction. Deep down he had a bad feeling about this case. 


	3. Kidnapped

Back at the flat Sherlock was holed up in the kitchen, intently staring down the eye piece of his microscope. I hovered behind him, trying to peer over his shoulder. Eventually I was forced to give up, he was much taller than I was. Sherlock had been absorbed in his work ever since we'd arrived back from the crime scene and had hardly spoken to me. My stomach let out a loud gurgle and I winced, glancing at Sherlock to see if I had disturbed him. To my relief he showed no sign of even having noticed. All I really wanted to do at that exact moment was to go to the local supermarket and buy food. I didn't though as I could guarantee the instant I walked out the front door Sherlock would suddenly decide he needed me. Instead I leant back against the cupboards and hummed tunelessly under my breath. I was beginning to get the feeling this case would be another where neither of us would eat until a solution had been reached. 

"Will you stop that?" asked Sherlock, sounding faintly annoyed. 

"Stop what?" I replied, feigning innocence. 

"You know perfectly well what John. I need complete silence when I'm working." 

Using a pair of tweezers Sherlock carefully rotated the bullet casing and took another look down th microscope. I heard him curse quietly and blow out a long breath. 

"What's wrong?" 

Sherlock swept his hand toward the microscope, inviting me to take a look. Hesistantly. almost as tough I was afraid to find out what had caused Sherlock's calm exterior to crack slightly, I adjusted the focus and bent to take a look. At first I could see nothing but dull, gold casing but after fiddling with the dials I found what Sherlock had spotted. I took a step back and glanced up at Sherlock. He didn't meet my gaze as he reached past me to switch off the microscope's light. He straightened up and ran his hand through his dark hair. There was a thoughtful expression on his face. 

"I need to make a phone call. I'll be back." he said as he left the kitchen. 

I breathed in deeply and closed my eyes, overcome by a feeling of dizziness. This couldn't be happening, it just simply wasn't possible. There was no way Moriarty could be behind our latest case. He wasn't the sort of person to wait two years before putting a revenge plan into motion. Gently I picked up the bullet and tilted it towards the light, illuminating the ornate curling 'M' carved into the casing. Even though Sherlock hadn't said anything to me I suspected that whoever the shooter was had intended the bullet to be found. Why would anyone go to all the trouble of carving a letter into the casing otherwise? 

I decided to voice my concerns to Sherlock and was just about to follow him into the living room when I heard my text tone go off. I picked my phone up and pressed a few buttons so I could read it. 

"Come at once to the corner of Baker Street. We need to talk about Sherlock. I'll have a taxi waiting." - MH 

"Okay. See you there." - JW 

I sighed. This was typical of Mycroft. He always summoned me at the most inconvenient of times. I supposed however I couldn't be two annoyed with him. Being sent a text asking to meet was much better than being kidnapped, a tactic Mycroft had been fond of in the days when I'd only just moved into 221B Baker Street. I headed in the direction Sherlock had gone, slowly walking through the mess we called home. I grimaced at the skull sitting on the small coffee table; well at least I could never say life living with the worlds only consulting detective was boring. 

I found Sherlock in the living room, leaning back against the bullet riddled wall beneath the spray painted yellow smiley face; animatedly talking into his phone. When he saw me enter the room he held up his hand to indicate he was having a private conversation and didn't want to be disturbed. 

"You promised me you had it all under control and yet today I find a man shot dead only five minutes from the flat I live in. I have a bullet casing with his sign on it and don't exactly call that keeping it under control." Sherlock paused and listened for a moment to whoever was on the other end of the line. "I don't care if you're busy. I didn't fake my own death for you to let his henchmen run around London shooting people who look like John." He frowned, a dark look shining in his eyes. "Just do your job and make sure no-one else gets hurt." 

Sherlock hung up with a deep sigh and slid down the wall, only stopping when he hit the floor. I waited patiently for him to address me and watched him loosen the top button of his shirt and close his eyes. 

"Yes John?" 

I could tell by the way his fingers were entwined beneath his chin that his brilliant mind was already on other matters. Once he was like that he didn't really pay attention to the world around him. 

"I received a text from Mycroft, he wants to see me." I paused, biting my lip. "Are you okay Sherlock?" 

Sherlock didn't look up when he replied. "Everythings fine. Off you go. You wouldn't want to keep my great brother waiting." He said, a definite spiteful tone creeping into his voice. 

In this mood it would be impossible to get a decent reply from him. "What will you do while I'm gone?" I asked. 

Sherlock opened his eyes, a slight smile tugging at his lips. "There's someone I wish to visit." 

As I stood there watching him it struck me how child-like he looked hunched in the corner, his blue eyes full of concentration. It was at times like this I didn't want to leave his side so I could protect him if he ran into danger. I always felt odd leaving my constant place by his side. I was better now about leaving Sherlock's side; after he'd first revealed he wasn't dead I'd hardly left his side at all. I sighed and shook my head. I couldn't keep Mycroft waiting, if there was one thing Sherlock's brother hated it was lateness. Reluctantly I started to turn my back on my friend. 

"Just be careful." I said. 

Sherlock glanced up at me and tipped one eye in what almost could have been a small wink. "I always am careful John." 

Still not feeling entirely at ease I headed out of the flat and turned towards the place Mycroft had said for me to meet him. When I reached the corner I was annoyed to find no taxi waiting and muttered sourly under my breath, telling myself if he didn't arrive in five minutes I was going to turn round and go back to Sherlock. I really didn't have the patience today for Mycroft's power tricks. I was almost at the end of the five minutes I'd set when a taxi crawled slowly around the corner and pulled to a stop in front of me. 

"Finally." I muttered. 

The door closest to me swung open and I was just taking a step towards it when I felt a sharp, stabbing sensation in my arm. I turned my head, already feeling slightly groggy, and saw a syringe hanging from my arm. I made a clumsy grab for it, meaning to pull it out, but missed. Instead my hand just brushed the syringe, causing it to fall to the pavement and smash. For some reason Mycroft had decided to kidnap my anyway. 

Darkness gathered at the edge of my vision and I felt my body beginning to relax against my will. I fumbled in my pocket for my phone or my gun but a hand relieved me of both and threw them down onto the pavement, also stepping on the phone for good measure. Now I had no way of getting a message to anyone. 

"Sherlock." I slurred, fighting to keep my eyes open. 

An image of my friend busily working on his latest case flashed through my mind and I realised with a sense of horror he wouldn't notice I was missing until I didn't turn up later. By then it would be too late. 

A pair of strong arms wrapped themselves around me and bodily hauled me into the dark interior of the taxi, dumping me on the floor where I was able to see a dark figure illuminated by the window. I tried to move and was horrified when my unresponsive limbs refused to do anything. An ice cold hand touched my forehead, sending a shiver up my spine. 

"Don't panic John Watson. No harm will come to you...yet. You know I'm surprised the great detective allowed you to come out and meet his brother when he knew Mycroft wasn't in London today." The familiar voice with it's soft, irish lilt froze my heart and a strangled gasp escaped me. "Carry on driver. I have a promise to keep to our dear Sherly." 

Panic fluttered through me when I realised how much danger I was in. I tried to sit up but my body no longer listened to what my brain was telling it. All I was able to do was lay on the vibrating floor of the taxi, helpless to do anything but watch as Baker Street slid past the windows and disappeared behind us. 

The person sitting in the back of the taxi shouldn't be here, couldn't be here. Sherlock himself had told me how he'd shot himself through the roof of his mouth before lying motionless in a spreading pool of blood, the light slowly fading from his eyes. I realised now how short-sighted we'd all been to believe he was really dead. He and Sherlock were so similar to each other it stood to reason both of them would have been able to fool the other. It would have been easy for him to outwit Sherlock while the detective had been in a fragile, overemotional state. 

"How?" I managed to choke out. 

The person looked down at me and smirked. "All in good time my dear John, all in good time. I think the big reveal can wait until you're reunited with Sherly. And don't worry I'll make sure you and he have time to say goodbye before you die." He said, resting his hands behind his head and staring out the window. 

I desperately tried to speak or move in one last act of defiance against the one who'd caused my friend so much emotional pain and distress; the detective had been a wreck when he'd revealed himself to me in the cemetery before his own grave and was only now beginning to piece himself back together. I was too late however to do or say anything; the drug coursing through my system had already done it's job. I silently cursed myself as the darkness finally overcame me. Sinking ever further into unconsciousness I let my head fall back with a thud against the floor of the taxi, the taxi that was carrying me ever further away from 221B Baker Street and Sherlock. 


	4. Realisation

Once John had left to go and meet my brother I remained where I was on the floor for a few more moments and stared blankly at the ceiling. There was the smallest of doubts at the back of my mind and for a minute I hovered on the brink of putting the case on hold and hurrying after John. It took an immense effort of will to push the thought to one side. Despite my doubts I couldn't allow myself to get distracted from the case, not when Moriarty could possible be involved somehow. 

I sighed and absent-mindedly fiddled with one my shirt buttons. I knew the only reason someone would carve a letter into a bullet casing was that they wanted it to be found, which was why Lestrade had been able to find it so easily without my help. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath as I did so. There was an aspect of the case worrying me, one aspect I was unable to work out, and that was the resemblance the dead body bore to John. Once again I remembered Moriarty's threat to kill everyone I cared about by signalling to hidden gunmen. Could it be possible Moriarty was putting a revenge plan into action. My eyes flew open. 

Had I been right to let John go see Mycroft alone? Should I have gone with him? My hand was half-way to my phone before I caught myself and reprimanded myself for being so overprotective. John, he was perfectly able to look after himself and I trusted my brother to look after him while John was within his care. There was no point in worrying and I forcibly shoved the emotion to one side, aware of how it my clouding my judgement. I needed to concentrate if I was going to get to the bottom of this case. 

My mind cleared of doubts that would distract me from making accurate deductions and observations I stood up and strode towards the door, pausing only to grab my coat and wrap my scarf around my neck. Outside, as I turned to walk briskly up the street, I spotted a solitary taxi pulling away with a single occupant in the back but quickly dismissed it as an unimportant detail. I had other things to worry about. As I walked to my destination my mind constantly ran over the details of the case, interrupted occasionally when I noticed odd little details about passers-by. The walk passed quickly and in no time at all I reached the dark shop the gun dealer I know works from. 

My step slowed and for a moment I wished John was here beside me as I took in the unlit shop, glass from its smashed window glittering on the pavement. It didn't take a consulting detective to work out there had been a break in. Cautiously I made my way forward, my eyes scanning the scene before me. I was unable to spot any immediate threats but decided it was best not to risk calling out. I had been taken by surprise before and wasn't eager for it to happen again. 

The door appeared to still be locked and without John to bash it down for me I carefully climbed through the window, my scarf wrapped around my hands to protect them from the jagged shards of glass. Inside I straightened up and blinked against the darkness. If I was going to work out what had happened here I needed light, despite the potential danger of startling anyone who might be in hiding. I had no choice though, I had to work out who was responsible for the shooting. John's life could very well depend on it. 

I fumbled round the walls until my hand brushed against a light switch. The sudden explosion of light illuminated a scene of utter destruction. The entire contents of the shop was strewn over the floor. I frowned, what on earth had happened here? I looked round, slowly walking ever further into the shop. A sudden thought struck me followed by a jolt of realisation. The destroyed store was a distraction, something to draw my attention away from the person sneaking up behind me. I spun round but I was too late. 

A powerful arm wrapped around my neck. I gasped, suddenly unable to breath. I struggled against my attacker's grip, trying to gain some purchase so I could get them off me. Drawing back an elbow I rammed it into my attacker's stomach. I heard a loud gasp and the tight grip around my throat loosened, enabling me to break away. I backed off, gingerly massaging my neck, wondering what John would say when I returned tonight with a bruised throat. 

"Who are you? Who do you work for?" I choked out, my voice sounding slightly strangled. 

My attacker smirked. "I think you know that already Sherlock. My employer is 'dying' to meet you." 

I took a step back, my feet cracking and crunching on the debris littered floor. "But he's dead. I saw him die." I protested, not wanting to hear what I'd already worked out for myself. 

My attacker lunged towards me and I easily side-stepped his clumsy attempt. He crashed against a stand and let out a loud yelp. I stared down at him, unable to feel any sympathy for someone who'd just been trying to strangle me. 

"Ha." laughed my attacker, sounding slightly breathless. "Did you really think you were the only one clever enough to fake your own death?" 

The two of us face each other, both of us watching the other as we tried to guess what the other's next move might be. 

"Moriarty's way was crude and brutal, just like him. At least there was some elegance in my death. Let me guess he employed you to finish me off for good." I said, probing for answers. 

My attacker started to pace. "Oh you think you're so clever Mr Sherlock, I'm the world's only consulting detective, Holmes. Moriarty doesn't want you dead just yet. Oh no, first he plans to destroy the one thing you love, just like he promised to on the rooftop of St Bart's." 

A cold shiver ran down my spine. "But none of that matters any more. Moriarty got me to jump." I said, aware of how my voice was starting to show signs of emotion. 

My attacker paused on front of me and I found myself staring into a pair of dark brown eyes. "Moriarty always keeps his promises." 

I was about to reply when the shrill ringing of my phone cut through the silence. Slowly I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone, keeping one eye fixed on my attacker. 

"Yes? Hello?" I snapped, annoyed at having been disturbed from questioning my attacker further. 

"Sherlock, its Lestrade. Is John there with you? 

I was startled to hear the usually calm Lestrade sounding flustered. Instantly I knew something must have happened. "No he's not. He's with Mycroft." 

I heard Lestrade sigh heavily. "He can't be. Your brother isn't in London today remember? Sherlock I'm calling because I found John's gun and phone at the corner of Baker Street. The phone was smashed. I think some-thing's happened to him Sherlock." 

I gritted my teeth. I'd known I should have listened to those doubts I had had earlier. I glanced swiftly towards my attacker, remembering what he'd said about Moriarty destroying the thing I loved most. Realisation dawned on me. Moriarty had John! 

At this point, having noticed I'm distracted by the phone call, my attacker tackled me. Together we both go crashing to the ground and I lose my grip on my phone which skittered away into a corner. 

"Moriarty will not be beaten." My attacker cried, his hands tightening around my throat. 

I didn't stop to think about what I was going to do and was already reaching for the object I'd deliberately placed myself close to. The umbrella stand was heavy and perfect for the purpose I intended to use it for. I smashed the stand down on my attacker's head with a satisfying thud and smiled grimly when I felt him go limp. I pushed him off me and went to find my phone. 

"Sorry about that Lestrade." I croaked. 

"What the hell is going on?" He thundered in reply. 

I winced and held the phone away from my ear. "If you;d be so kind as to send a few of your least annoying officers to Monty Smith's store you'll discover why I was temporarily separated from my phone." I paused and drew in a deep breath, preparing myself for what I was about to say next. "Meet me at St Bart's Hospital soon as you can. Moriarty has John." 

I hung up before Lestrade could reply and sprinted from the store. This time I didn't stop to wrap my scarf around my fingers and sliced them on the glass. I wasn't aware of the pain though; the only thing I cared about was getting to John before Moriarty did anything to him. As I ran down the street I cursed under my breath. I had been so wrapped up trying to solve the case I'd played right into Moriarty's hands. I spotted a taxi coming towards me and jumped in front of it. It screeched to a stop and I hastily climbed in. 

"St Bartholomew's Hospital, quick as you can." 

The taxi driver gave me a funny look and for a moment I imagined what I must look like to him with my bloodied hands and bruised throat. I shook my head and pushed the thought away. I didn't have time for such distractions. 

"Well?" I snapped, earning me a dirty look from the driver. "What are you waiting for?" 

The taxi pulled away and I leant back in my seat, willing Moriarty to wait until I got there before he did anything. I closed my eyes. I would never forgive myself if John was hurt. Barely five minutes later the taxi slowed to a halt. I leant forward and slid open the partition. 

I skidded to a halt momentarily and spun to face him. "Take it up with Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. He'll be more than happy to pay for me." 

This of course was a complete lie. Lestrade hated it when I did things like that and knew I often did it just to annoy him. Today however was different, today it was a matter of life and death. At the speed I was going I calculated it ould take me about ten minutes to reach the hospital. As I ran random thoughts drifted through my mind, each one sending a small stab of dread through me. What if I was too late? What if it was a trap? What if Moriarty didn't wait? 

I gritted my teeth and concentrated my efforts on running faster. I was just being pessimistic. Of course I would arrive on time and save John. There could be no other outcome. 

I rounded a corner and suddenly St Bart's was directly in front of me. I looked up at the roof but couldn't see anybody up there. That didn't mean Moriarty wasn't up there. I was just turning my gaze away from the rooftop when a loud gunshot split the air. I froze where I was for a few seconds before sprinting across the street, horns blaring and drivers cursing as I weaved through the traffic before crashing through the doors into the hospital's reception. People cried out as I shoved them aside. The rest of my journey through the hospital became a blur until finally I stood once more on the ill-fated roof where Moriarty and I had last faced each other. 

I spotted John almost straight away as he lay in a rapidly spreading pool of blood. I was about to run to his side when I heard a commotion coming from the street below. I peered cautiously out over the edge to see a number of police cars pulling up outside the hospital, their blue lights flashing and people jumping out, Lestrade among them. 

"Hey." I shouted, waving my arms. "We're up here." 

I didn't wait for a reply and drew back from the edge, hurrying over to John. I fell to my knees beside him, not caring about the blood that would stain my clothes. Tenderly I rested two fingers on the vein in his neck in order to feel for a pulse. To my relief I felt a strong rhythm beating beneath my fingers and I allowed myself the luxury of a small smile. With a shaking hand I reached out and stroked John's hair, telling myself as I did so everything was going to be al-right. 

"It's going to be fine John. Moriarty failed." I whispered, pausing for a moment. "I was so afraid I'd lost you this time, there was so much blood. Please open your eyes and show my you're okay." My voice broke slightly and my hand on John's head paused. My emotions were beginning to badly get out of my control. 

A few tears dripped down my cheeks and I hastily, annoyed at myself for being so weak, wiped them away. I would never forgive myself for letting John go off to see my brother alone and getting shot as a result. He was my only friend and would be nothing without him. If he died I would go back to being the emotionless machine I'd been before I meet him. 

This was all my fault. If only I hadn't gotten so wrapped up in this case, a case that had turned out to be a false one designed to lure me here, I could have protected my friend from harm. 

I heard footsteps coming up behind me but pretended not to notice them. I already knew who they belonged to. The cold muzzle of a gun was pressed against the back of my neck and I heard the click of the safety being taken off. 

"Hello Sherly." said the all too familiar lilting voice. 

I grimaced and stood to face the person I'd believed to be dead. "Hello Moriarty." 

As usual Lestrade and the others wouldn't arrive until it was much too late. 


	5. Rooftop Confrontation

"Surprised to see me?" Moriarty asked gleefully, a mad expression in his eyes. 

"Can't say I am." I replied, careful to keep my voice calm. "You left enough clues behind." 

Slowly, hesitantly I stood, turning to face the person who had twice now tried to do me harm, once in an empty swimming pool and once on the very same roof top I was currently standing on. Like the scenery Moriarty hadn't changed at all. There was a dream like grin on his face as he jammed the muzzle of the gun painfully into my ribs, making me wince. 

"I'm so glad you enjoyed my little treasure hunt Sherly. And now you get to claim your prize." Moriarty said in a low voice that sent a shiver down my spine. 

For a moment I just stared at him, at a loose for what to say. I glanced over my shoulder at John and bit my lip; somehow I had to get both of us out of this mess alive. I decided it would probably be best if I played along with whatever game Moriarty was playing and used the time to think of a plan. I still couldn't hear any sign of Lestrade and the others. Hopefully, just this once, they would arrive on time. Silence fell and Moriarty and I eyed each other, trying to figure out who would make the next move. 

"And what is my prize? Not anything involving you I hope." I said. I was aware every second we spent talking meant John could be closer to dying. I bent towards my friend, meaning to check his pulse again but was stopped by Moriarty grabbing my wrist and savagely twisting it up behind my back. He then pressed the gun against the side of my head. 

John groaned weakly, gazing round with glazed eyes. I could see his confusion when he saw me in Moriarty's grip, confusion that was quickly replaced by horror. 

"S-Sherlock." He croaked weakly, trying and failing to raise himself into a sitting position. 

"Let me go to him." I cried, struggling against Moriarty's tight grip. "There's still time to help him." 

Moriarty tutted and shifted his grip so one arm was wrapped around my throat. Now I could see John but was unable to go to him. "And why would I do that Sherly when your prize is to stand here like a good little detective and watch dear John Watson die." Moriarty said in a tone of voice usually reserved for a parent giving their child a treat. 

"That's just inhuman." Whispered John, shocked he could do such a thing. 

"It's going to be al-right." I said in an attempt to reassure him. 

"John smiled weakly. "Where have I heard that before?" 

I was aware of Moriarty's grip on the gun loosening, the muzzle no longer pressed flat against my neck. It was too good an opportunity to miss. I struggled fiercely until I managed to free my wrist from his tight grip before I brought an elbow ramming into the soft flesh of Moriarty's stomach. He let out a small cry of pain and dropped the gun which skittered across the rooftop towards John who weakly raised himself on one elbow in order to grab it. His aim was unwavering as he levelled the gun at Moriarty's heart. I went to take a step towards him but Moriarty tripped me, causing me to crash down close to the edge of the roof, scraping my already injured hands on the concrete. 

While I tried to catch my breath Moriarty bodily lifted me and half forced me out over the edge. I stared up at his innocent smirk and fisted my hands in the collar of his jacket. If I was going over then he was going with me. 

John's eyes narrowed and there was only the slightest hint of a shake in his voice when he spoke. "Let him go Moriarty or I will kill you." He said, his voice hard. 

Moriarty laughed. "If you kill me, Sherly here will die too." He chimed, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. 

I closed my eyes, still trying to figure out a plan. This time if I fell I would die. There was no Molly or Mycroft to help me. This time there was only me, Moriarty and John. The thought making me feel saddest was that John would die if I couldn't find a way to help him. I opened my eyes and looked round, searching for a possible solution. From the corner of my eye I could just about see the grey, unforgiving pavement far below. 

"SHERLOCK!" The shout was unmistakeably my brother, his usually calm voice frantic. 

I opened my mouth to reply and Moriarty glared at me, forcing me out further over the edge of the roof. From below there were screams and a cry of "hang on, we're coming." I stared up into the face of Moriarty, able to see the mad gleam in his eye and the sneer on his lips. 

"What do I do Sherlock?" Cried John, sounding lost. 

I wanted to reply but didn't want to annoy Moriarty any more. I still hadn't come up with a plan but was interested to note how the majority of Moriarty's weight was no longer leaning on me. Maybe, just maybe I would be able to turn the tide. Summoning the last reserves of my energy I shoved him up and away from me. He cried out and stumbled back, leaving me free to clamber back to my feet. 

"What are you waiting for John? Shoot..." 

I was prevented from saying anything else by Moriarty tackling me from behind. In my tired, weakened state I was unable to fight him and he easily managed to wrap an arm around my throat as a result, hugging me tightly to him. 

"Yes Dear John shoot me." Laughed Moriarty before bursting out into a twisted version of the nursery rhyme Humpty Dumpty, the lyrics of which he'd obviously come up with himself. "Moriarty sat on a wall, Sherlock Holmes had a great fall. All Mycroft's horses and all Lestrade's men, couldn't put John back together again." 

I heard John exhale loudly and saw how his hand was shaking, barely keeping his grip on the gun. His calm exterior was dangerously close to cracking and I realised he'd be more likely to make a mistake when the time came to act. I hated seeing my friend so conflicted and decided to help him. 

"For gods sake John shoot him and put him out of his misery." I cried, having long since given up trying to free myself from Moriarty's grip. 

John looked at me and I was startled to see his eyes filling with tears. "I can't Sherlock. If I shoot him, you'll die too. I-I can't loose you again Sherlock." He cried in the shaking voice of one close to loosing control. 

I gazed at him for a moment, unable to say what I already knew was break his heart all over again. I breathed in deeply. Regardless of how much it would hurt John it needed to be said. With Moriarty dead John would be able to continue on with his life safe from harm. It would just a shame I wouldn't be there to share it with him. "No-one will really miss me. I know Lestrade won't; he's never liked having to run around cleaning up after my messes." 

John sniffed and wiped the back of one hand across his eyes. "How can you say that after everything we've gone through together? I'd miss you Sherlock." 

Rapidly growing bored of the situation Moriarty stopped humming and tightened the arm around my neck. "Oh isn't this sweet?" The two of you getting so emotional with each other. Why Sherly you're not an angel after all, you're just human." 

John's expression become fierce as he raised the gun. His hand no longer shook. "You're wrong Moriarty. Sherlock is the most amazing person I know. He may only be human but at least he has friends who care for him." 

Moriarty huffed in my ear but didn't reply. My friend's finger tightened on the trigger. I knew what he was about to do but was helpless to do anything but watch. John was a good shot with a gun and had proved himself on more than one occasion. I did however have doubts whether he would be able to kill Moriarty without hurting me as well. I sighed. In a slightly gruesome way there was something almost poetic in my death taking place on the rooftop of St Bartholomew's Hospital, as though I'd always been meant to die here. 

"Goodbye John." I whispered, knowing as I said it there was no way he could hear me. 

Moriarty heard me though and chuckled quickly. "See you in hell Sherly." 

Just as I closed my eyes I saw John pull the trigger, sending the bullet speeding on its way, and prepared myself for the end, already knowing I was almost certainly going to die. 


	6. Help arrives

The gun-shot was deafening and echoed eerily around the surrounding rooftops. Moriarty let go of Sherlock and stumbled back with a small cry. I hastily scanned Sherlock and was relieved when I saw no sign of blood. I realised my shot had gone wild smiled apologetically when Sherlock glared in my direction. From behind me I heard shouts and the sounds of booted feet thundering up the stairs towards the roof. 

Moriarty frowned and stepped forward. I tensed, expecting him to have something else up his sleeve and winced at the pain that shot suddenly through my arm. I glanced critically at my wound. I knew I needed medical attention but it would have to wait until Sherlock and I survived our latest encounter with Moriarty, the world's only consulting criminal. 

"You invited people to the party and didn't tell me? I expected better of you Sherly." Moriarty tutted, crossing his arms and looking severe. 

I aimed the gun at Moriarty again but didn't get a chance to take another shot. Instead Moriarty lunged in Sherlock's direction, grabbed him and shoved him hard in my direction. Sherlock stumbled, over-balanced and came crashing down onto me. 

"Hey!" I shouted. "Watch it. That hurt." 

"Sorry." replied Sherlock as he climbed back to his feet and looked around the roof. 

I looked round as well, trying to spot Moriarty only to find he'd already vanished. It didn't surprise me. I was about to mention his absence to Sherlock when the door to the stairs burst open and Lestrade ran through, his gun clutched in one hand. 

"Where is he?" Lestrade demanded, scanning the rooftop. "Where's Moriarty?" 

Sherlock shook his head, the look he usually reserved for Lestrade plainly on his face. "You're too late. Moriarty's already gone. He's probably headed to the nearest Underground station as we speak." 

Lestrade crossed his arms and regarded Sherlock fiercely before his expression softened slightly. "Are you okay?" he asked. 

I snorted loudly. "I wouldn't call almost dying fine. I narrowly survived a fatal gun shot wound." 

My snappish moaning fell on deaf ears. Lestrade was already striding away to join the rest of his team in searching the roof while Sherlock watched his brother approach through narrowed eyes. I sighed. It looked like I would have to wait for medical attention. Mycroft glanced round for a moment upon reaching Sherlock, taking in the scene, before he turned to his brother. 

I frowned. If I wasn't mistaken Mycroft looked faintly uncomfortable as he toyed with the handle of the umbrella that was his constant companion. I looked at Sherlock. My friend's expression was neutral and I could almost see his clever brain working as he tried to work everything out. 

"Are you okay?" asked Mycroft, keeping his gaze averted from Sherlock's. 

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm fine, though I'll probably have some bruises." He paused and his voice shook slightly as he struggled to keep it under control. "You failed me brother. You promised me you'd deal with Moriarty's henchmen and any plans he left behind." Sherlock breathed in deeply and massaged his forehead with his fingertips. "Were you aware Moriarty faked his death?" 

This last question threw Mycroft and he seemed for a moment to be at a lose for what to say. I watched him, curious to see what his reply would be. 

"You did know didn't you?" prompted Sherlock, his blue eyes stormy. 

Mycroft raised his head and I was shaken to see a terrible, haunted expression in his eyes. A sudden realisation struck me. Mycroft had known about Moriarty faking his death but had decided to keep it to himself. Anger flooded through me. Because of his silence Sherlock and I had very nearly been killed. 

Nervously Mycroft cleared his throat and his eyes flickered towards Lestrade who was yelling into his phone. "I'm...er...going to see if Lestrade needs any help." 

"Idiot." I muttered under my breath. 

Sherlock lazily raised his eyebrows and grinned down at me before he knelt down, unwrapping his scarf from around his neck as he did so. He gestured for me to raise my arm and knotted the scarf tightly around my shoulder. I half flinched away from him and he muttered a quiet apology. I watched Sherlock as he worked, taking in his intense look of concentration and the way his black hair flopped into his eyes. I felt the sudden urge to brush it away but resisted. 

"There." Sherlock said. "That should slow the bleeding until we get back to the flat." 

Standing he hooked an arm around my god shoulder and pulled me to my feet. I swayed, hit by a sudden wave of dizziness, and hissed when pain shot through my arm again. Sherlock gave me a concerned look but I waved him away. 

"I'm fine." I forced out between gritted teeth. "Shouldn't we wait Sherlock for Lestrade to dismiss us?" 

Sherlock shrugged and began to lead me towards the stairs. "We should but your wound needs urgent medical attention. Besides there's nothing more we can help him with. If he hadn't been so noisy Moriarty wouldn't have fled." 

I doubted the fact Lestrade would no longer need our help but decided it was best not to contradict him. Just before the door swung shut behind us I heard Lestrade's voice as he shouted after us. I laughed quietly. 

"OI! SHERLOCK!! Where are you going? I still have questions to ask you. SHERLOCK!" 

"Just ignore him and he'll leave us alone." said Sherlock. 

Neither of us looked back. 


	7. Taxi Ride Home

Despite Lestrade's shout no-one followed us down the stairs, showing he was finally beginning to learn his place. I solved the crimes and he cleared up afterwards. Not caring about the horrified looks we were getting from staff and patients alike I lead John through the corridors of the hospitals and out of the front doors. When we reached the street I was pleased to find a taxi waiting and helped John into it, being sure to be careful not to jolt him too much. I have read that gun shot wounds, even non-fatal ones like John's, can be painful. Once he was settled I leant forward to address the driver. 

"221B Baker Street please." 

The driver grunted in reply which I took to mean he understood and pulled away from the curb. I sat back next to John and regarded him closely. 

"Are you okay?" asked John, his voice strained. 

I held up my hands and gave him a slight smile. "I'm fine John. I'll just have some faint strangulation marks and some bruises." 

My attempt to reassure him however failed and I realised I'd forgotten the deep wounds in my palms where I'd sliced them on the broken glass. 

"Sherlock." gasped John, grabbing my hands so he could examine them. "You're hurt. What happened?" 

I gently slid my hands from his grip and hid them within the pockets of my coat, wincing slightly when the bloodied, ripped skin caught on the woollen lining. "It's just a couple of scratches. I'll be fine." 

John shook his head, his eyes wide. "They are not scratches Sherlock. You're going to need stitches." 

I closed my eyes. "I'll be fine." I repeated, clearly emphasising each word. "I can tend to them when we get back to the flat." 

John let out a small snort to show me he wasn't happy but didn't say anything else. An awkward silence fell between us and I almost felt sorry for telling him to stop worrying about me. I knew, though John tried very hard to hide it, that John cared deeply for me and hated it when I was injured and didn't let him do anything to help me. I glanced over at him and noted how his shoulders were tense and how his hands were clenched in his lap, both signs he was trying not to lose his temper. An unexpected emotional reaction to John's pain stirred within me and I quickly forced it down. 

Being the world's only consulting detective was a job I'd always taken seriously, there was just something about solving the crimes that puzzled even the police, though with the likes of Anderson on their side I wasn't surprised the police often became confused and asked me for help. I'd always been proud of the way I could remain emotionally unattached from the cases I was trying to solve. Nowadays, though I could still remain aloof, it was becoming more difficult. Now I had another person to look out for. I'd known from the very first time John Watson and I had met outside 221B Baker Street he would have a profound effect upon my life, a fact I'd proved when I had faked my own death just to keep him safe. 

I sighed deeply and cursed the stupid human emotions that still continued to plague me despite my hardest attempts to lock them away. Life would be so much simpler without emotions. The only things emotions were good for were clouding my judgement and rendering me unable to deduce anything. Remaining unattached was much better. 

I glanced over at John again, noticing the way he was sitting slumped against the window and the way his breathing faltered every time the taxi went over a pot hole. Even to Lestrade, the most unobservant person I knew, it would be obvious he was in a great degree of pain. For a moment I had to fight the most irrational urge to reach across and lay a comforting hand on my friend's shoulder. Mentally I took a step back, separating myself from the part of my mind that still insisted on dabbling with emotions, and analysed my reaction to John's pain. 

The act of comforting in itself was rather pointless due to the way it didn't really achieve anything. The best way I could 'comfort' John was by getting him back to the flat where I could tend to his wound and give him painkillers. I re-entered my mind to find John staring at me, a slight frown on his face. 

"What is it?" I asked. 

John cleared his throat. "How can you be so calm? We both could have died back there." He answered, a slight shake creeping into his voice. 

"True." I replied. "But I had it under control. I had a plan formulated in case Lestrade and my brother hadn't arrived when they did." I turned away from John when he gave me the look he frequently directed my way when something bad had happened. A look that according to Molly looked rather like a puppy after I had been kicked. Slowly I looked in John's direction again. "I'm sorry for what happened today. I knew from the beginning Moriarty was the mastermind behind out latest case and still let you go walking straight into his hands." 

John swallowed loudly and one of his hands twitched, a movement that suggested to me he wanted to reach across the divide between us and show me he understood. Instead he winced and clutched at his shoulder, blood beginning to leak from under my scarf. "Thank you for saving me Sherlock. It's not your fault Moriarty is evil and enjoys manipulating people." 

I shrugged and allowed myself the luxury of a small smile. "It's what friends do." 

John's eyes took on a sharp look and he fixed me with a fierce expression. "I thought you didn't have any friends?" he demanded. 

I felt disappointed he'd forgotten what I had said to him, probably because he was so annoyed with me, during the case he had written up on his blog as 'The Hounds of Baskerville'. I couldn't hold a grudge against him thought, his mind was feeble when compared to mine. 

"That's true. I don't have friends, I just have one." I said softly, watching as the anger faded from his eyes and was replaced by a look of slow realisation. 

John's eyes welled up with tears and once more his hand twitches. "You lied to me Sherlock." he said in a shaking voice. "You told me you weren't a hero, that you weren't someone to be trusted. You're wrong Sherlock. I would trust you with my life." 

I shook my head, wondering how John had managed to keep his unwavering belief in me when everyone around him had doubted me. Though I didn't often show it I was grateful for his constant presence by my side and had thought I'd have a best friend until I'd met him. John cleared his throat loudly and I glanced towards him, wondering what he was about to say. 

"What actually happened to Moriarty?" 

I sighed, knowing he wouldn't like my answer. "He got away John. Sadly Moriarty is still at large." 

A visible shiver passed through John, an emotional reaction that for once made sense. Moriarty was not someone you wanted to know was out there hiding in the shadows, maybe watching your every move. 

The scenery outside the taxi's windows was more familiar now as we turned onto Baker Street. I wondered for a moment if the crime scene had yet been cleared away, Lestrade could be forgetful sometimes. Even though I usually tried to keep emotion at bay I allowed myself to relax, considering I deserved it after everything I'd gone through today, and let the last few moments of the ride slip past me unobserved. 

* * * * 

I watched Sherlock relax and realised with a small jolt how much the latest confrontation with Moriarty had cost him. He seemed tired, vulnerable even, and for a moment all I wanted to do was reach out to him. I didn't though. I was about to say something to Sherlock when the taxi came to a halt outside 221B Baker Street. Sherlock leant forward to pay the driver before he hurried round to help me out climb out, a steadying arm firmly round my shoulders. 

"Your wound is still bleeding and your complexion is paler than it was when we left the hospital. I'll tend to it the instant we get into the flat." 

I couldn't help rolling my eyes at Sherlock's matter of fact tone but didn't say anything. Instead I nodded wearily. All I wanted was a good nights rest followed by a week where we weren't needed at any crime scenes. Surely Lestrade would be able to cope that long without Sherlock's help? 

I was only half-aware of Sherlock guiding me up the stairs. At one point I heard Mrs Hudson exclaim in horror at our dishelleved (and in my case bloodied) appearances and Sherlock reassuring her it really wasn't as bad as it seemed. She didn't follow us or insist I be taken to hospital so I assumed she was trusting Sherlock's judgement. 

At some point, while being carried up the stairs, I must black out because the next thing I was aware of was lying on the sofa while Sherlock cleaned my wound and prepared to stitch it up. A pleasant feeling of weightlessness settled over me and I was aware of a strange taste in my mouth. 

"Back with us I see." Sherlock's voice was gentle and there was a slight smile on his face. 

He frowned in concentration as he patiently threaded surgical thread through a thin needle before, after giving me a small apologetic smile, sticking the sharp point into my skin. I flinched, expecting to feel pain and was puzzled when none came. 

"Did you drug me?" I asked, my voice slurring slightly. 

There was a slight twinkle, though I was probably hallucinating, in Sherlock's eye as he finished stitching my wound closed and securely wrapped a bandage around it. Whatever drug he'd given me sent a wave of drowsiness drifting through me, causing my eyes to flicker and almost close. I forced them open again, not wanting to succumb to sleep just yet. 

Having tended to my wound Sherlock turned to his attention to the torn skin of his hands. I blinked, my eyes growing ever heavier, as Sherlock stretched out his arms, his hands wrapped neatly in bandages, and sat back on his heels. To anyone who didn't know the great detective he would have appeared not to have been affected by the days events. I however could see how emotionally draining the day had been for him and how, from the way he would wince every now and then, today would leave a physical impact on him. Our confrontation with Moriarty had left it's mark on both of us. 

"What's going to happen now?" 

Sherlock looked round from where he was unfolding a blanket and regarded me seriously for a moment. "Mycroft is dealing with it as we speak." 

Even I with my limited intellect was able to hear the lack of conviction in his voice. "But you don't trust him?" I questioned. 

Sherlock snorted as he lay the blanket over me and carefully tucked in the corners. "He's my brother. Of course I don't trust him. Rest for now John. We'll talk more in the morning." 

Through half lidded eyes I saw Sherlock drag over his armchair and slump down beside me. I yawned and snuggled down beneath the blanket, the drug in my system pulling me into sleep with the promise of a dreamless night. Feeling warm and safe I drifted off to sleep, comforted by the knowledge Sherlock was by my side and would never leave me. 


	8. Epilogue

Night had fallen a long time ago outside 221B Baker Street and the weather had become icy cold with a freezing wind howling through the empty streets. There was hardly anybody about on such a night and the only soul in sight was a dark figure leaning against the cold metal of street lamp who'd been standing there since before the lights of 221B had gone out for the night. Despite the fact the person stood in a patch of garish orange light they seemed to give out a sense of threat that would have caused people to cross the street if there had been anyone else around. 

Moriarty, for of course it was he, shifted slightly. If he really wanted to he could just walk into the flat and end the lives of Sherly and John Watson as they slept, unaware to his presence. They would completely at his mercy if he decided to act upon his impulses. Moriarty rubbed his hands together gleefully and adjusted his cream tie. How careless of Sherly not to have a couple of Lestrade's officers outside the door of 221B, especially since the great detective now knew he hadn't died. 

Moriarty took a single step forward, inwardly wrestling with himself. All he wanted to do was walk into the flat and finish what he'd started. At the same time however Moriarty knew he needed Sherly as without him there would be no point to being the world's only consulting criminal. He sighed and leant back against the cold metal of the lamp post. In the end it all boiled down to Moriarty simply seeing no point in ending their lives so abruptly because there was no challenge in it. Moriarty smirked and crossed his arms. No, it was better to wait until they could play his latest game. 

From behind him Moriarty heard the sound of a quick, clipping step making its way towards him along the street. He didn't bother looking up. He already knew who was coming towards him. "Good evening." said Moriarty without looking round. "You don't really need your umbrella as it's not raining. I don't think you could use it anyway in this wind." 

Moriarty turned to grin at Mycroft who appeared taken aback by the greeting. When he felt the consulting criminal's gaze on him Mycroft hastily composed himself and cleared his throat. "What are you doing here Moriarty? Don't you think you're done enough damage?" Mycroft demanded, leaning on the handle of his umbrella as he critically regarded Moriarty. He felt uncomfortable being so close to the person who'd caused his brother to fake his death. He closed his eyes. Sherlock was still damaged from the experience and Mycroft doubted whether his brother would ever truly recover. "You promised me that if I helped you you would leave Sherlock and John alone." 

Moriarty leant towards him. "Oops." he said, his lilting voice sly. "I suppose I did promise." He took a step back, crossed his arms and looked Mycroft directly in the eye, as though daring him to look away. "But I was only keeping a promise to dear Sherly." A smirk spread across Moriarty's face when he saw the distasteful expression on Mycroft's face. "Don't look at me like Mycroft. You were the one who offered me the deal in the first place." 

Looking distinctly uncomfortable and aware he was badly out of his depth Mycroft took a single step backward and tore his gaze away from Moriarty's. He had nothing to say to him. All he wanted to do was to get the consulting criminal as far away from Baker Street as possible. Mycroft sighed, though he did not show it very often he really did care for Sherlock. "That may be so but I didn't expect you to try such a blatant attempt on both John and Sherlock's lives. The deal I offered you was that if I helped you fake your death well enough to fool my brother you would never show your face in London again." 

Moriarty shrugged. "And you won't see me again. I couldn't just leave however without fulfilling a promise, a promise I have to remind you I have yet to carry out since John and the others are still alive. I do have a reputation to keep up after all." 

A cold chill settled over Mycroft as the implications of what Moriarty was saying struck him. "The others?" He asked. 

Moriarty nodded, a smirk spreading across his face. "Just like my original plan. Three bullets, three victims- one by one. It's a shame I never got to see it through to the end." He turned and started to walk away. 

Mycroft went to say something in reply but was annoyed to discover he was speechless, a situation he didn't often find himself in. All he could do was watch as Moriarty slowly walked away from him, his black suit blending perfectly with the night. Just before he reached the corner he turned back to face Mycroft, a bright smile on his face. 

"Tell me one thing Mycroft before I go, why did you even offer me the deal in the first place? Sherly I imagine wouldn't be pleased if he ever found out." Moriarty said, his head tipped to one side and an inquisitive expression on his face. 

Mycroft took a moment to consider the question, carefully formulating an answer that would please Moriarty. "My brother needs someone to keep him and his brilliant mind in check. Without you creating crimes and games for him to solve using his deduction skills he would be endlessly bored. And Sherlock isn't someone I can afford to have going off the rails." Mycroft said with a slight smile. 

Mycroft could still vividly remember the time a half-hysterical John had phoned him to say Sherlock had managed to take a blood stained harpoon on the London Underground without getting arrested. At the time he had reassured John by saying that was normal behaviour for a bored Sherlock with no cases to occupy him. Mycroft sighed and shook his head. He really didn't want a repeat of that. He was torn away from his musings by the sound of Moriarty clearing his throat. 

"Goodbye Mycroft Holmes. Give Sherly my love." cried Moriarty, giving a little wave before turning on his heel and disappearing into the night. 

Mycroft drew in a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm. Somehow he had the feeling Moriarty wouldn't be able to stay away too long, he simply enjoyed manipulating people, especially Sherlock, too much. He glanced up towards the dark windows of 221B and swore he saw the curtains twitching shut. He shook his head, knowing full well he was being ridiculous. After such a frantic day Sherlock and John would be fast asleep. Mycroft gripped the handle of his umbrella tightly, hoping that would be the last they would see of Moriarty for a while. A shiver ran down his spine and Mycroft was aware of just how cold the night really was. It was probably time he headed home. There was nothing more he could do here tonight. Slowly Mycroft walked away, thinking about how next he would be ready for whatever Moriarty had planned. 

* * * * 

Inside the dark interior of 221B Baker Street Sherlock sighed and smoothly drew the curtains across the window, hiding the street from view and blocking out the garish orange light of the street lamps. He'd known Mycroft hadn't been telling the whole truth about Moriarty, had known by the way his brother had been unable to meet his eye earlier. Even though Sherlock had known it had still been difficult for him to watch Mycroft talking freely to Moriarty as though they were old friends. Next time, Sherlock vowed to himself, he would not be caught unaware, next time he would be ready. 

Sherlock turned away from the window and stared around the room for a moment before his gaze finally settled upon John. Three times now Moriarty had used his friend to get to him. Sherlock closed his eyes and massaged his temples. He wasn't sure he could protect John if Moriarty tried to end his life again. 

A yawn escaped him, reminding Sherlock of the exceptionally busy day he'd had. Slightly wobbly on his feet Sherlock walked back across the room and collapsed down into his armchair beside John whose face was utterly peaceful in sleep. For a moment, like numerous other occasions that day, Sherlock felt an irrational urge to reach across and lay a comforting hand on John's shoulder. This time instead of fighting it Sherlock gave into his feelings. John stirred a little beneath his touch but didn't wake up. His friend's response to his touch caused an odd, half remembered emotion to well up in Sherlock. He and John made a great team. 

Sherlock yawned again and his eyes grew heavy. After everything that had happened tiredness was finally catching up to him. Slowly Sherlock drifted off to sleep, safe in the knowledge that John was by his side and would never leave him. 

A fragile peace settled over 221B Baker Street, broken only by the occasional taxi driving past, a peace that would last until the detective's next case. For now though, side by side with their bodies almost touching, Sherlock and John slept on. 


End file.
